My name is baby and you lean out of your car and spit at my feet it lands in a puddle in front of me and I am thirteen and in a suburban neighborhood on the way home from school and I gag and run with my backpack banging like the echo of your words against my back like you are chasing me all the way home.

My name is sweetie and I am fifteen in the city with my friends for the first time and we get a little lost and you follow us for a full block you name my friends honey and darling and why the **** won’t you talk to me!?

My name is nice *** and it’s two in the afternoon and I still feel my heart slam against my ribs because I am under a hundred and fifty pounds and I have weak lungs and weaker fists and while you saunter down the steps, swinging the beer bottle in your fist, my father who is walking behind me shouts, “she’s seventeen, you *******” and maybe I’m near my family but I don’t feel safe until we’re home again.

My name is ******* and my friend is laughing and we just graduated high school and we feel like we are on the brink of something beautiful and terrifying and she is in heels and about to throw up and you name her drunk enough and I have to physically drag you off and when we go home she cries for four hours because a night that should have been just teenage fun almost resulted in the end of her trust of humans.

My name is look at those **** and we are on a college campus and the boy I am with holds onto my waist just a little tighter while you drive up next to me. You name him **** and throw a bottle at his forehead. I can’t stop shaking until long after it’s over. He says “it happens,” and I say, “It shouldn’t.”

My name is **** girl and we are walking down the street. There are ten of you and two of us and you snap a picture when you think we’re not looking. You tell us to either come inside or you’ll **** us on the street. You all laugh like this is funny. This is a compliment. This is just something boys do to get ladies.

My name is little lady, my name is fine miss, my name is ******* and **** your friends, my name is look me in the face, my name is stop frowning, my name is smile, my name is why did you even glance at him you were asking for it, my name is this is a compliment, so I looked it up according to Oxford that’s “a polite expression of praise or admiration”  I think you've got the definitions mixed up.

My name is  pretty thing,  my name takes nice words and make them into bullet wounds.

My name is  nice body  and no girl I know has dated a man who catcalled her.

My name is  great rack  and it turns out that if you shout things at a stranger, they sound like knives more than flowers.

My name is  women like you never know their place  and every single “nice” thing you say to a woman is something you’d never utter to another man because you know that it’s derogatory.

My name is  princess  and  a reason to get put in prison  and if another man spoke to your mother, sister, or girlfriend like that, you’d **** him.

My name is  ****  and every time I hear someone raising their voice I am thirteen again and I don’t know who you are and I’m running home with a weight on my shoulders and your words like a slap to my spine and your laughter hanging in the air.

I am scared and alone and suddenly so small, and compliments are supposed to make me feel good not afraid for my life, compliments are a way of saying  “I care and I appreciate you and I thought you should know it,”  and if you really meant it as a compliment, you’d care about how I would take it - but you don’t mean it like that, you mean it to show off.

You mean it to make us object, you mean it to shove our names into your back pocket so you can tell your friends  “I saw the hottest little thing  yesterday”  and they can be groan about how we just walked away because you don’t see us go home with keys in our fists and all the lights on and we keep 911 dialed just in case and we triple-check our locks and we don’t fall asleep at all because your compliment knocked us over and took who we are

If we are all saying  “it doesn’t sound like a compliment, it sounds like a threat,”  If you really wanted to make us feel good - wouldn't you stop doing it?

thanks
no i mean it

thanks

i was actually feeling a bit
d                          
o                  
w        
n

and­ i needed you to tell me
on a monday night
at 7:53
in the middle of july

that i had i nice ***

it really brightened my day
to know
that i
a human person

can be complimented
because of my
assets

instead of the fact
that i work
all the time
without getting tired
or giving up

or that
i study
so much
i feel like
i'm falling apart

or that
i spend time
trying to make the world
around me
a little
bit
better

i really wanted to affirm
what girls are told
from the time
they can listen

that cup size matters
and whether or not
you fill out your jeans
means
whether or not
you might matter

that we will be ignored
in the work place
if we aren't
supermodels

and even if we are
that is all we become

bodies

not people

you know
somebody once told me
it doesn't matter
what you look like
because your personality can make up
for anything

which should be good
like
i look like quasimodo
but with a sense of humor
and a bit of *****
i'm esmerelda

i can look like a spork
but if i laugh
and play along
like nothing's wrong
like girls should
i can be a full fork

i love that i have to be something

really

i do

i love that being
is more important than
existing

i love that i have to be someone who listens and never speaks

i love that i have to work with all my might to be thin enough for people who don't care about other people

i love that i have to have a double d and up in order to be even noticed

i love that my **** has to be filled out and gigantic so that i can be assured personhood by a man

because girls are only

what

the

men

see

we are reduced to objects
who give up
and don't fight

because the women who fight
are criticized
and *****
and killed
and we can't stop it

because the more we speak

the more we are silenced

so thank you
sir

for reminding me at 7:53
in a menards parking lot
your wedding ring glinting
like the malice in your eye
that all i am
is
what you see

Why I’m not “All About that Bass”
So I’m in my car cruising down i-49
When I hear a song with a kickin-baseline
I'm all about that bass,bout that bass no treble, i'm all about that bass
I'm bringing ***** back go ahead and tell them
STOP
Excuse me?
When did ***** leave?
How did ***** get there?
Was ***** on vacation?
Where they at tho?
Yeah my moma she told me don’t worry about your size*

But not because in a patriarchal society I am valued  for my ratio

Of hips to thighs as handle bars for my man to

“keep me grounded”

But because I was beautiful anyway

I am not the number sewn into society like the waistband of my jeans

I am the number of times I look into the mirror and say “hey ****”

And if society is too lazy to know that beneath  these eyes but above these hips

And behind this full chest theres a heart

Lets be real

Were not going to blame Meagan trainer

She probably didn’t even write this song
but why are we idolizing these who only look to sexulize the femaile body instead of holding us to
a higher standard

and just think

you are perfect, thank you pink

we can be stronger, thank you Kelly

And no matter what we are beautiful, thank you christina

Why aren't these the women we are idolizing?

Because according to hot 107.9 its all about the *****

I am not something you can put into a box something you can stereotype

Just because i have big thighs and a ***** to match doesn't mean i want it to be pointed out

or catcalled every chance there is.

my body your body everyones body is their own

and deserves to be treated like its own perfect stronger more beautiful self.
i am strong

i am perfect

i am beautiful

my hips don't belong to you

my ***** does not belong to you

i do not belong to you

And thats why im not all about that bass

I see so many ads now
they feed into my insecurities
and help me to notice everything that is wrong with me.

"Got stretch marks?"
they ask, and my eyes shamefully
trace down my chest to my inner thighs and I learn to hate what I see.

So I read on, hoping to learn
how to get rid of the natural signs of an ageing vessel
"Neosporin, coconut oil, and olive, and they'll be gone in a week."

The ads proclaim, and so I do as they say
because how can I be pretty
if no one else thinks me so?

"10 Tips on How to Get the Relationship of Your Dreams"
"5 Signs that You're Not as Pretty as You Think You Are"
"4 Things to Try to Spice Up Your *** Life"

"1 Way to Tell Whether the Creepy Old Man on the Corner Thinks You're Worthy of Being Catcalled by Him"

I read on, trying to understand what it is to be pretty
but the more I see,
the more hopeless I become

Men will only ever see me as a piece of meat,
just a pair of **** and an ***,
only there for their enjoyment or pleasure.

but I am not here to make things easy,
I am more than the sum of my parts,
more than my cellulite and hip dips

I revel in my stretch marks
I have grown into the woman I am today,
and I refuse to erase the proof of that.